A Glimpse of Joyous Isles
by estrafalaria103
Summary: And so Michael/Adam and Lucifer/Sam fell into the Pit, and God was not pleased, for this lacked literary symmetry. And so on the eighth Day, God started over. And so Lisa will try to be badass, Dean and Sam will try to reunite, and Castiel will drink tea.
1. Lisa

Lisa Braedon always considered herself a little badass. Not, like Buffy the vampire-slayer badass, or even Angelina Jolie on steroids badass, but still. . .she was at least as badass as it was possible to be, with hippy flowerchildren as parents. Sure, she'd never made it through college, smoked her fair share of joints, and ended up teaching yoga. . .it was legacy. And sure, she believed in peace over warfare and plenty of free love (wasn't Ben proof of that), but that didn't mean she couldn't kick ass.

After all, with no help from her parents or her deadbeat lover, she'd managed to raise Ben. And he wasn't a pansy. She'd managed not to totally freak out during the Changling Event of 2007 (and wasn't that a little badass?). She hadn't screamed when Dean Fucking Winchester reappeared on her doorstep three years later, looking like he'd come off the bad side of a bender and spouting suicide signs at her (though she had called his brother). She'd handled the attempted mugging two months after that. And, most badass of all, when Dean Fucking Winchester had reappeared _again_, still looking hot as hell despite bags under his eyes and nearly omnipresent tears, she'd made him sleep on the couch.

Yeah, that's right. She, Lisa Braedon, made Dean Fucking Winchester, Sex God Eternal and Savior of Mankind, sleep on the couch. Show who's boss, sister!

She had a gun hidden in the bureau next to her bed, and she'd supplemented her yoga class income with new lessons in self-defense. So, yeah, for a girl who'd grown up in a fluffy pink room with peace signs, she figured she'd ended up pretty badass.

Which was why, when she heard the front door open (even though she was _sure_ she'd locked it, and Ben and Dean shouldn't be back for hours), she figured she could handle it. Just took the phone off the hook (thank God for suburbs. . .fifteen minutes of the phone off the hook and the cops would be at the front door) and lifted a frying pan.

Two seconds later she saw a shadow against the far wall. She hefted the frying pan a little higher. Two seconds after that, a foot appeared. Weird, she thought. It was a loafer, in dress slacks. Not what she was expecting. Another second, and another step. Was that the bottom of a trenchcoat that she saw? Another step and

WHAMO!

"Thank that, pervert!" Lisa said, triumphantly brandishing her frying pan. Her triumph was short-lived, however, as the man she had so recently brained merely turned to look at her. He seemed completely unfazed.

"Oh. . .fuck. . ." Lisa dropped the frying pan, wishing she'd just called the police instead of moving the phone. The strange man cocked his head, knit his eyebrows together, and reached out one hand toward her forehead. Lisa took a step back.

"Don't touch me, sicko," she said. "My boyfriend will be back any second, and he'll fucking kill you if you touch me."

"I find that. . .doubtful," the man said. Something seemed to catch his attention, however, and he suddenly looked over Lisa's shoulder.

"Your phone is not correctly connected," he said, and with a calm, fluid movement, placed the phone back in the cradle.

This was the point when Lisa decided to admit that she wasn't really badass at all.


	2. Ben

#1 Awesome Thing about Dean staying that their place: no more taking the bus to school. Which was sweet, especially since he was in high school, and only losers rode the bus any more.

#2 Awesome Thing about Dean: the self defense lessons. And even though Dean had made him _promise_ not to tell Mom (as if he was stupid, or something) he knew it was about more than keeping the bullies away. Sometimes Dean would tense up when they heard a noise outside, or saw something weird on the TV, and that wasn't so awesome. . .but Mom said it was just the PTSD thing that Dean had, and that he needed them to listen.

#3 Awesome Thing: all the cool stuff he got. For his birthday, Dean had given him a bottle of Johnny Walker, and didn't even bother telling Ben to keep it secret from Mom. For Christmas, he'd gotten Dean's old leather jacket, which was _awesome_. And maybe, if he was really good, Dean would even let him drive the Impala when he got to be sixteen.

So, yeah, there were a lot of awesome things about Dean staying with them, which offset the Bad Times, as Dean and Mom called them. The times that Dean would get really quiet, and wouldn't want to talk to anyone. Those times were becoming more rare, though, which Ben was real glad about. Because Dean got almost. . .scary. . .during the Bad Times.

Fortunately, this was clearly not one of those times. Ben left school to find the hulking black car waiting for him, Zeppelin blaring out of all the windows.

"Damn, Braedon, wish my dad were that cool," Matt, Ben's best friend, sighed as soon as they left. Ben blushed a little at the praise and the mistake, but didn't say anything to change the guy's opinion. People had just assumed, when Dean moved in, that he was Lisa's erstwhile ex, and his father. Neither he nor his mom had done anything to change that opinion.

"Hurry it up, kid," Dean yelled. "You got cement for legs?"

"Chore day," Ben explained to Matt, a wry grimace crossing his face. "See you tomorrow."

"See ya."

Ben ran the last few steps to the Impala, flinging his backpack into the backseat before plopping down next to the hunter.

"Good day at school?" Dean asked, reaching out and ruffling Ben's hair. Ben sighed. That was one of the UNawesome things about Dean. He always ruffled his hair, like he was a friggin' baby.

"It was okay," Ben said. "I think I flunked my algebra exam."

Dean just shrugged. "Those things happen," he said, and then slyly, looking out the corner of his eye, "you snag Rachel's phone number."

Ben tried to keep a smile off his face as he sighed. "Well. . ." he said.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Dean said. "There are other fish in the sea."

"Got it!" Ben almost giggled as he waved his cellphone. "Those were some great lines, Dean. She totally ate them up."

Dean grinned at that. One of his real grins, the kind that crinkled up the skin around his eye. Ben might have been only a kid, but he wasn't stupid. He could tell when Dean was really smiling, and when he was just pretending to. And, just like Mom, he loved being able to coax a real smile out of their permanent houseguest.

As they pulled into the driveway, however, something changed. Ben couldn't tell what it was, but for some reason Dean had tensed up, and his hands on the wheel were white-knuckled. "Ben," he said. "I need you to stay in the car."

"What?" Ben was getting a little freaked out. He _knew_ what Dean's real job was, and it wasn't being some mechanic at the broken-down garage. He knew. He'd seen it, hadn't he? And hadn't he helped out last time? "No way," he protested. "I'm going in, too. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," Dean said, and his voice was flat and dead. "Just stay in the car."

"What's going on. . ."

"Stay in the car!" Dean barked, and it was angry and kind of scary-sounding. Ben sank back into the leather upholstery. Dean was out of the car in a flash, and jumped around to the trunk. He grabbed something out of it, and bolted up the front steps. It was only then that Ben noticed that the front door was swinging open.

Mom _never_ left the front door open.

His stomach dropped.

#4 Awesome Thing about Dean: One day he might let Ben in on one of his hunting trips.

Ben had just never wanted it to be at his house.


	3. Dean

**AN: Not altogether happy with this chap. It's HARD to write from Dean's POV! Thank goodness that's over. . .**

The door was open, which was a bad sign, since Lisa _never_ left the front door open. And Dean could see, even from the dirty front window of the Impala (he'd been thinking about letting the kid wash it, but couldn't get up the courage) that the thin line of salt he'd smudged along the doorframe was gone. Which meant one of two things.

Who was he kidding? It meant one thing – his hunting past had caught up with him.

"Ben, I need you to stay in the car," he said, the adrenaline up and pumping. He still had a cache of weapons in the back of the car – Sam had never made him promise to get rid of those. He'd grab the sawed-off, march up the stairs. . .

"What?" The kid's voice sounded a little weird, high and squeaky. "No way. I'm going in, too. Is something wrong?"

"I don't know," Dean said. He considered grabbing another weapon, dismissed it. Wished Lisa was Catholic. . .it would be handy to have a rosary around. "just stay in the car."

"What's going on. . ."

"Stay in the car!" Dean snapped, realized with a twinge that he sounded just like his dad. Was that what his face had looked like, on all of those hunts? Didn't matter. Most important thing was to get in, get Lisa out, and then waste the demon. Easy as pie. Like riding a bike.

He grabbed the sawed off, jogged easily up to the front porch. Bust in or be cautious. . .he heard a noise from the kitchen. Right. Bust in it was.

Adrenaline soared, making him feel invincible. This, he thought, for the first time in months, this is life. This is living. Too bad it required a life-threatening situation and a scared kid in the car. He raised the gun, spun around the corner, sighted.

Lisa was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a cup of tea. Across from her was a man in a trenchcoat, dark hair an unbrushed riot on his head.

"Hi, honey," Lisa said cheerfully, lifting one eye at the gun held loosely in his left head. "Um. . .what did we agree about weapons in the house?"

"The. . .uh. . ." Dean raised a hand, scratched at the back of his head. "The front door was open. I thought. . ."

The man turned around, slower than any normal human, and with more grace. "Hello, Dean."

Make that Grace.

Castiel looked exactly the same, down to the rumpled suit and cockeyed tie. Dean felt a rush of. . .something. He dropped the gun, took two steps forward, and punched the guy in the face.

"Son of a!" He gasped, clutching at his hand. He was pretty sure he'd broken at it.

"Dean, really!" Lisa shook her head. "I'm so sorry, Castiel, I don't know what's gotten into him." Sounding, for all the world, like he was some kind of a freakin' dog.

Castiel ignored her (tact obviously not being part of his reprogramming) and came to stand in front of Dean. He peered up, blue eyes meeting green.

"It's good to see you again, as well," he said, his voice flat and dull. But then he did something he'd never done before.

He reached out and hugged Dean.

Dean froze for a second, before awkwardly hugging the guy back. Because, really, what else could he do. Clapped the angel (manfully) on the back before pulling away.

"Hey," he said, lifting a hand. "No chick flick moments."

Cas cocked his head for a moment, regarding Dean as though he were some freaked-out science experiment, then nodded, once.

"Very well," he said, and sat down again. He gestured at the still-steaming mug. "Lisa has introduced me to tea."

"Uh-huh," Dean looked warily across the table at his ex-lover turned counselor turned current lover. Lisa just beamed at him. Similar to the way she'd smiled when she'd made him apple pie.

"Why did you never introduce me to this beverage?" Cas asked. "It is warm and comforting."

"Uh. . .it's more Sammy's kind of. . ." But he couldn't finish the sentence, because his goddamn throat closed up. He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose. Opened them again, to see Lisa's brown eyes filled with sympathetic tears, and Cas just looking perplexed.

"Anyway," Dean cleared his throat, pulled up his own chair. "What are you doing here? Four months too long to hang out with those douchebags in heaven?"

"Actually" Cas began to speak, but Dean cut him off.

"Cuz, you know, after saving the world together I thought maybe, just _maybe_ you wouldn't turn back into a dick. That maybe you'd pop by."

"I was"

"Too much to expect, though. You angels. You get what you want and then – poof – off to find another Apocalypse somewhere. Shit."

"Dean, I"

But Dean was getting into it, now. Because that punch hadn't come out of nowhere. Because he'd been pissed off by the angel – betrayed.

"I thought you and I, you know, we could storm Hell, get Sam out. Get back to our real lives. But you. . .you. . ."

Lisa was looking a bit uncomfortable. Dean took a deep breath, tried to calm down.

"Whatever, man. I don't need this. I'm fine, okay? Guilt gone. You can get back to your dickass brothers upstairs. I'm doing what you wanted, okay?"

Castiel still wasn't moving. Lisa bit her lip.

"Um. . .I'm just going to. . .do the laundry. . ." she said.

"Fine," Dean sulked. A thought occurred to him. "Oh, why don't you let Ben out of the car?"

"You locked my son in your car?" Lisa asked. Then she shook her head, stalked off. "Typical."

"Are you finished?" Cas asked, a beat later.

"Yeah, whatever, man," Dean said. He wanted – needed – a beer. Really wished Lisa wasn't a health nut who didn't keep any around. "We're finished."

"Good," Cas said, apparently missing the note of finality. "Because I need you to stop Sam."

"Stop. . .shut up, Cas. That isn't fucking funny."

"Regrettably, it is not," Cas agreed. "I tried to explain that it was not his case, but he insisted on investigating. I recommended.—"

Dean held up a hand, because it was clear that the angel had lost a marble. Maybe the whole Apocalypse thing had been tougher on the guy than Dean had expected. Maybe the Big Guy hadn't put him together right. Something.

"Hold up there, Sancho. Sam's dead, remember? Jumped into the pit with Mike?"

"Oh, yes," Castiel nodded. "Four months ago. It took a while to put together a garrison, but then we went down, gripped him tight, and raised him from perdition."

Dean gaped. His mouth was open. He looked like an idiot. He didn't care. He lurched out of his chair, flung himself across the table, and grabbed Cas by both shoulders.

"Are you telling me – and don't lie to me, Cas, don't you dare do that, you son of a bitch – are you telling me my brother's alive?"

Castiel paused for a moment, his blue eyes boring holes down to Dean's very core.

"I rebelled against Heaven for you. I was blasted to bit by an archangel twice. I lost my Grace. I lost my family. I lost my faith. For you. Did you really think that I would leave you in Hell a second time?"

Dean smiled then, because yeah, Lisa was great, and Ben was fucking fantastic, but the suburbs were definitely Hell. And those weren't tears in his eyes, they were just freakin' allergies.

"Cas," he said. "I could kiss you right now."

Cas just tilted his head. "You could do that any time, Dean," he said, almost disapprovingly. "Right now, however, we need to retrieve your erstwhile brother."

Dean wasn't entirely sure what erstwhile meant, but he definitely understood brother. "Sure, man, just give me a second to"

He didn't get to finish the sentence, however, because Castiel reached out with two fingers and gently touched him on the forehead.


	4. Castiel

**AN: Castiel's point of view, which means the chap is a bit more serious. Because, although Cas is HILARIOUS, he also has more gravitas than every other character combined.**

He's back, in the cornfield, the cemetery, the aftermath. He's back. . .all back. He can feel the Grace coursing through his being, can feel the wings gently unfurling at his back. He feels the voices of his brethren, and the call of Heaven. But he thinks only of the Winchesters.

He cannot see the hole in the ground, but he can See it. Will have to send a Garrison to patch it up, to recreate Seals to keep the devil in. He sees the car, sees the battered man sprawled beside it. Hears the breaths whooshing in. Hears the desire to die.

He could walk away right now, and let the man die. Perhaps that would be the greatest kindness. Perhaps he would descend once more to Hell, and spend the rest of eternity with his brother. Maybe he is destined for Heaven. Either one, to the newborn angel, is better than more of this Purgatory.

It would be the kindness, and Castiel is reading to walk away when he hears the choked voice, deep, ravaged, pain coursing through it.

"Cas, you're alive?"

The voice is so torn and destroyed that it twists something within the angel, as well. Humanity pulls at him. Is ignored.

"I'm better than that."

Fingers reach out, because once he's heard that voice the emotions comes back. Doubt. Fear. Betrayal. Anger.

Love.

Features knit themselves back together, but there are still deep bruises, deep sadness beneath the moss green eyes. Even an angel's Grace can not heal the soul.

"Cas, are you God?"

A bit of a smile pulls at his lips, because really, after all they've been through, after all he's suffered, this insignificant human still doesn't know, doesn't understand, doesn't believe.

"That's a nice compliment. But no. Although, I do believe he brought me back. New and improved."

That's a phrase he's learned from earth, and it's dangerous that these euphemisms and slang are running through his mind already. The voices of his brethren sound more distant than they did before.

He helps the man into the car, though he doubts that Dean either needs or appreciates the help. He sits beside him, passenger side, shotgun. Another phrase that needs to be eliminated.

"What are you gonna do now?"

Castiel considers. He almosts asks "what do you want me to do?" But he doesn't. Because the Apocalypse is over, and Dean Winchester no longer has a mission, no longer has a cause. He was once willing to betray Heaven for Dean Winchester the ideal, but he does not think that he can ever betray his Father for Dean Winchester the man. So instead he says, "Return to heaven, I suppose."

"Heaven?" Incredulity. Disbelief. Annoyance. Castiel considers.

"With Michael in the cage, I'm sure it's total anarchy up there." Doesn't mention Zachariahs' death, or Gabriel's, or Raphael's imprisonment on earth. Doesn't remind Dean of Uriel or Anna. He doesn't think he has to. Those deaths are inscribed on both their souls, written English, Enochian, and ever language in between.

"So what," Dean snorts, and jokes because he doesn't know how else to react. "You're the new sheriff in town?"

"Yeah," Castiel smiles a little. "I like that. I suppose I am."

Or should be, anyway, because he's pretty sure that he's earned a promotion. He almost unfurls his wings, almost asks Dean whether he can see them now, whether they aren't just shadows, but are filled with light. He thinks, though he doesn't say the words, that he may now be an archangel.

"Wow," Dean's mouth is smiling, but it is twisted and bitter. "God gives you a brand-new, shiny set of wings. And suddenly you're his bitch again."

Castiel should be angry at this blasphemy, but he senses the pain and betrayal in the man. He hears his brethren even less, and suddenly the Impala seems impossibly loud, with her engine, and her creaks, and her destroyed driver.

He can't believe he just assigned a gender to an inanimate objec.

"I don't know what God wants," Castiel answers. "I don't know if he'll even return. It just. . .seems like the right thing to do."

"Well, if you do see him, you tell him I'm coming for him next."

Castiel pauses, considers reaching into Dean's mind, wondering where this anger is coming , Sam is dead. He understands that this is an ache in the other man, and pain that cannot be assuaged. But shouldn't there be some pride, as well? Shouldn't there be some happiness? All that he can sense is anguish. But he will not look into Dean Winchester's mind, because, as he was once told, "friends don't fuckin rape each other's mind, Cas."

"You're angry."

"That's an understatement."

"He helped. Maybe even more than we realize."

"That's easy for you to say. He brought you back. But what about Sam? What about me, huh? Where's my grand prize? All I got is my brother in a hole!"

Castiel is confused for a moment. After all, wasn't Dean also brought back, not once, but countless times? And Sam, though currently darkside, will be brought back. Castiel is certain of it – if he cannot convince a battalion to rescue the younger Winchester, then he will go down himself. He doesn't understand what Dean thinks he has lost.

"You got what you asked for, Dean," he tries to explain. "No paradise. No hell. Just more of the same." No more intereference from angels – he will see to it. "I mean it, Dean. What would you rather have – peace or freedom?" By peace he means heaven. By freedom he means this old lifestyle.

For him, of course, there is no choice. Neither way lies peace. He is a warrior – the only thing that changes is the general. He realizes, abruptly, that he does not want to hear Dean Winchester's response, that he _cannot_ hear Dean Winchester's response. Because for him to do what he must do – for him to stay away, to keep his brethren away, to rescue Sam and nothing more – he needs for the answer to be freedom. He's not entirely certain that it is.

It does not take long to find angels willing to attempt a rescue mission. Everybody wants to serve Castiel. It is a strange feeling, to be so assaulted by minds and thoughts and prayers again. He feels almost naked, his thoughts open to everyone. But the younger angels are amazed by his experiences on earth, and the older angels keep their distance.

They are respectful, but cold. There is no camaraderie, and Castiel finds that he misses the companionship of the noisy humans on earth.

He leads the rescue mission, of course. It is different from the search for Dean. Dean had already lain in Hell for months. Nobody knew him, nobody recognized him, and the bright light of his pure soul was bloodied and wounded. He had been in the deepest pits, devoid of hope.

Sam is discovered in the first circle of hell, his soul still bright and intact, shining with that curious mix of light and dark. He is sitting – or thinks that he is – in an empty room. There is no torture going on. He is just sitting, as though waiting.

"Sam," Castiel greets him. The man jumps to his feet.

"Cas, thank God!" He exclaims. "Hell is horrible!"

"What have they done to you?" one of the younger angels asked.

"Nothing. . ." Sam admits. "It's just so boring. . .I can feel my brain atrophying!"

Castiel carefully vets the man, searches for any lingering traces of Lucifer, but he cannot find any. Sam cannot explain it either. Castiel puts a hand forward, ready to grip Sam and raise him, but finds that he cannot do it. He feels as though he is betraying some part of himself. So he steps back, instructs a lesser angel, and follows them both up.

"I'm glad that you're back to being alive," Sam says, when they are standing upon the earth again. He is patting himself over, surprised to be alive, corporal, back in his own body. Castiel dismisses the rest of the angels, though Seraphiel, the angel who had pulled Sam up, is reluctant to leave. "How's Dean doing?"

"I have not seen him in a month," Castiel admits. "I assume that he is doing well."

"You haven't. . .wait. . ." Sam seems genuinely confused, and Castiel is tempted once again to reach into the depths of the human mind. But Sam is more accessible than his brother, more vocal and able to communicate. "Sorry, I just kind of thought, that after. . .everything. . .you two would keep going. You know. Saving people. Hunting things."

"You made Dean promise," Castiel says. That explains everything, to both Dean and himself. Sam just shrugs.

"I asked him to," Sam says. "But he never did. So I just thought. Never mind. Now what?"

"You go back to your brother," Castiel says. "You tell him that you are well. Then you do whatever it is that humans do with their puny, insignificant lives."

The words hurt to say, and that worries Castiel. It worries him that he worries. He has already spent too much time on earth.

"Wait. . ." Sam is confused. "You're not coming with?"

Castiel doesn't answer. He is afraid of what words will come out. Instead he just heads back to Heaven, to reorganization attempts, to bureaucracy. But things are not as complicated as he's assumed. Only Zachariah's garrison is difficult. . .everyone else returns to normalcy almost immediately, and Castiel finds himself with extra time on his hands.

Time to watch Dean Winchester.

He goes because he feels that this mission somehow isn't over. He'd been assigned to Dean, to raise him from perdition, to ensure that he followed out the plans of the angel. He followed Dean as a leader. And now. . .now there is still something wrong in the man. He does not like this hollowness. It leads to neither heaven nor hell.

He remembers the prophecy – the righteous man shall break the first seal. Only the Right Man can end the Apocalypse. He wonders why Lucifer abandoned Sam so completely beneath the earth. He does not know why his Father has not yet returned.

He has a suspicion, however.

So he watches Dean Winchester while he sleeps. He keeps a butter knife under his pillow, now, instead of a machete. He thinks this must be a compromise with the woman. He curls into himself, instead of entangling his legs between the woman's. He does not snore. And, when Castiel begins visiting, and notices the anguished murmurs and tossing and turning, he does not dream, either.

Castiel is so busy watching Dean Winchester, that he forgets about Sam Winchester, until Seraphiel follows him down one night.

"Castiel," she says. She says it twice before he turns to look at her. "I think. . .I think we have a problem."

"We?" Castiel asks, winces. He should not have said that. Seraphiel does not notice.

"Sam is investigating things that he should not," Seraphiel explains. Castiel cocks his head, and waits.

"I am not supposed to tell you any more," Seraphiel says, and then disappears.

This is concerning to Castiel. He listens, and all that he hears are the soft echoes of Dean Winchester's breathing. He realizes that he does not hear his brethren at all.

_Father_ he whisperprays. _Father forgive me_.

As he unfurls his wings, he thinks that maybe, he is already forgiven.

He lands beside Sam Winchester, who is busy typing on his computer. The man jumps a little when the angel clears his throat.

"Cas," he says. "Did you know about this?"

He shows Castiel what is on the computer.

After his talk with Joshua, Castiel understands better. He tries to persuade Sam to leave the case, but he will not. Castiel speaks again with the Gardener, and is assured that this is not a Winchester case at all.

When Castiel protests that neither was the Apocalypse, Joshua sighs, and tenderly touches the branches of one of his trees.

"Castiel," he says. "Are you ready to meet your Father?"

Sam still will not leave, and no amount of pleading by Castiel will change his mind.

"Look, Cas," Sam says. "We gave up everything to fight off the Apocalypse. And I thought we did. I went to _Hell_. And I was okay with that, because we'd won."

Castiel wants to explain that Sam still does not know what Hell truly is. Realizes that will be counterproductive.

"This, though. . .this means we didn't do it. It's not over. And I can't leave that alone. I just can't."

Castiel ignores the lock on the front door, and just walks in. He can hear the scrabble of feet inside. He knows that it is not Dean Winchester waiting for him in the kitchen. He walks in anyway.

There is a dull, almost metallic sound, and he feels a pressure on his head. A woman shouts, "Take that, pervert!"

He turns. Lisa Braedon is standing in front of him. Technically, she is still an attractive woman. Castiel acknowledges this, as he acknowledges that she is the cause of the pressure on his head.

"Oh. . .fuck. . ." Lisa says. She is terrified. Castiel does not understand why he inspires fear in so many humans. Jimmy Novak never had these problems. He considers putting her to sleep, and takes a step forward. "Don't touch me, sicko!" she screams. "My boyfriend will be back any second, and he'll fucking kill you if you touch me!"

Castiel considers this. The probability of Dean trying to hurt him is very high. The possibility of Dean succeeding is very low. "I find that. . .doubtful," Castiel admits. Over the woman's shoulder, he notices the phone, lying on its side, beeping inconsistently.  
"Your phone is not correctly connected," he tells her, and fixes the phone for her.


	5. Sam

**AN: Sam's back! (or is he) YAY**

Sam remembered liking libraries. It was strange, this active remembering – something he'd picked up in Hell, no doubt. It was like looking through a card catalogue, this careful consideration of his likes and dislikes. He'd flip through one card (LIKE: Caesar salad, dressing on the side), skip past the next (DISLIKE: AC/DC SIDENOTE: Don't tell Dean) and then breeze past another half dozen until he'd get to the one that said LIKE: Libraries.

That was one of the ways that Sam knew he hadn't been brought back exactly the same.

Still, he tried it out. Sitting in ratty old leather sofa, pulling his laptop out of a backpack, banging his knees on the too-short table. It all felt right, so he figured the new filing system in his brain worked.

What worked less well was the research. He'd been in the car, heading back to see Dean again, when he'd run across the case. Or, more specifically, when he'd run across Anthony Wandell.

Literally.

He pulled up the records in the computer. 35 years old, married, two children. No criminal background, nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone in town said that Anthony was a great guy, stand-up, wonderful. There were a lot of tears at the funeral.

Sam acknowledged the pain. And he acknowledged that there was something more going on, because the Anthony Wandell that he'd run over with the rented Honda had _not_ been an upstanding family man. He'd been practically foaming at the mouth, angry as hell and intent on ripping Sam apart limb from limb.

There were no reports on rabies in the area, so that wasn't it.

It had been broad daylight, so he wasn't a vampire.

He'd been clearly human. . .not a werewolf.

And he'd been entirely too out of his mind for any of the other supernatural creatures that he and his brother had dealt with on a semi-regular basis. Which left only the Croatoan virus, as much as his brain fought that idea. After all, they'd defeated Pestilence, and the Devil was safely still locked up downbelow. The Apocalypse, and all that went with it, should be over. That _should_ include the demon virus.

Except that Sam couldn't figure out another explanation for why Anthony Wandell had gone nuts-up bonkers. So, he did what he and Dean had _always_ done when in a tight spot.

He called Bobby.

"Hello?" The familiar gruff voice answered on the second ring, and Sam felt a rush of gratitude. He couldn't remember much of what had happened during his stint as a Devil condom, but he was pretty sure that he remembered Bobby being blown up.

"Hey, Bobby," he said, his throat closing up as he said the words. A long pause. Too long.

"Who is this?"

"Bobby, it's. . ." Sam ran a hand through his hair. How we he supposed to tell the older hunter who he was? How was he supposed to make him believe anything.

"Who the hell is this?" Bobby repeated, louder and sounding angry now.

"Cas came and got me," Sam said, his voices squeaking (sorting through the files for that half-buried memory. Past 12: Werewolf attack and just shy of 14: Best Birthday ever! There it was: 13: Puberty. Sam shuddered.

A pause again.

"Who. Is. This."

"It's me, Bobby. It's Sam."

Another long pause, long enough that Sam thought his friend might have hung up. But then, instead. "Well, I've seen crazier. You called your brother?"

"No, I was on my way there when. . .wait, Bobby, you believe me?"

"Haven't decided yet."

"Oh. Oh, okay. Um. . .anyway. . .I'm looking into this case, and. . ."

_Click_.

Sam stared at the phone in his hand, now beeping an ugly dial tone. Huh, he though. Guess Bobby didn't believe me after all.

Two seconds later, however, a large hand settled on his shoulder. Startled, Sam kicked back, nearly falling out of his seat. Spinning around, he is not altogether surprised to see Castiel. The angel just cleared his throat.

"Cas, hi," Sam said. He felt a little guilty. Why? Last time he'd seen the angel, he'd been instructed to head directly to his brother, do not pass Go. Oops.

Instead of apologizing, he just pointed at his computer. "Cas, did you know about this?"

The angel read over his shoulder, eyes narrowed in interested. He was close enough for Sam to _smell_. And he smelled, oddly enough, like motor oil and cinnamon. Huh. Sam wondered if all angels smelled. He couldn't remember Cas smelling in the past – except for those few times he'd gotten sloshed, and then it wasn't so much _him _that smelled, as the entire liquor store that he'd raided. Maybe. . .

"This is concerning," Castiel said.

"I know. It seems like the Croatoan virus, but it can't be, right?"

But when Sam turned to look at the angel, there was nothing behind him but empty space. Sam decided that his brother had been right. They really should have gotten the angel a bell.

The next day Sam dressed up in his Sunday best, with the entirely logical plan to go visit the Wandell house. There had to be another explanation.

The house, however, was empty. Completely, undeniably empty. But also clean. Very clean, in a clear indication that Mr. Wandell's wife (or himself, maybe) had been a bit of a neatfreak. But there was no sign of the pretty wife Sam had met on his first time out. No sign of the twin terrors who had been running around the wake.

Outside, carved into a tree, however, were three letters: C-R-O.

That night, as Sam was idly flipping through channels, he heard another soft voice cleaning. Only jumping a little this time (and offering a much-muted "Ei!) Sam turned to see Castiel.

Who then proceeded, for fifteen minutes, to try and dissuade him from following up on the case.

"Look, Cas," Sam said. "We gave up everything to fight off the Apocalypse. And I thought we did. I went to _Hell_. And I was okay with that, because we'd won."

The eerie thing, though, the thing that Sam didn't dare tell Cas, was that he didn't _remember_ Hell. He remembered being in that empty room, remembered being bored silly, remembered the pretty angel setting a hand on his back and leading him up up upupup, but before that? There was nothing. He knew there shouldn't have been nothing. Knew because of conversations with Dean, knew because of muted hints from demons and his father, knew because of _Ruby_. But for him? Nothing.

"This, though. . .this means we didn't do it. It's not over. And I can't leave that alone. I just can't."

No word from Cas, no wonderful whooshing of wings, just an abrupt disappearance.

"Dammit!" Sam exploded.

The first thing on the news in the morning recounts a violent incidence at a gas station. Tracy Wandell had walked in, gun in hand, and promptly shot three men before walking out.

Sam was getting a very, very bad feeling in his stomach. He returned to the motel, and sat heavily on the bed furthest from the window. He was still accustomed to sleeping in that bed. Still.

Never mind. What was he going to do? He closed his eyes, lowered his head into his hands. Think Sam, think. But his mind was still muddled, and though the card catalogue in his mind was getting easier to navigate it still wasn't. . .it wasn't how it used to be. He thought.

On the up side: he had been immune to the Croatoan virus. On the downside: he had no idea if he still was. On the up side: he knew what he was dealing with. On the downside: he had no idea how to deal. On the upside:

"What the fuck, Cas!"

His eyes flew open at the familiar voice, and he raised his head from his hands. It couldn't be. . .

"How many times do I have to say no angel mumbo-jumbo! We could have taken the Impala!"

"Time was of the essence. Hello, Sam."

Pause. Beat. Pause. Sam stared. Castiel was looking at him with an empty expression. In front of him was a man. Back to Sam. Sam took a deep breath. He could see tension filling in those shoulders, could see the back straightening. He swore he could _see_ his brother's jaw clench.

"D-Dean?" His voice came out a sick, pathetic warble. He didn't care.

Dean turned around, and his expression was as blank as the angel's. "Is that really you, Sam?"

Sam didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to respond. Because it wasn't him – not really – was it? But even as he thought it, the card catalogue flew away, and tears rushed his eyes. Dean looked horrible. He looked old and worn and _normal_. He was pale and tired and yet. . .unmistakably. . .still Dean.

"Yeah," Sam snuffled. "It's still me."

Dean's face remained closed. He took two steps forward. Leaned forward and caught Sam's gaze with his own. Sam tried to smile.

"Would you two like a moment?" Castiel asked, and Sam would have _sworn_ he heard a dryness completely at odds with the angel's expressionless demeanor. He glanced back over Dean's shoulder, wondering if the Cas that they knew from before was returning. As soon as his gaze had left his brother, however, he felt one arm before grabbed and twisted painfully behind him.

"Ow – Dean – what?" Sam whined.

"Shut up," Dean said, his voice low and gruff.

Sam obeyed. For about two minutes. During which _nothing. Happened_.

"Dean, wha" Sam tried again.

"Shut it!" Dean roared. A second later. "Um. . .Cas. . .any way to check whether he's an angel?"

"He's not an angel, Dean." Castiel said. "Nor a demon. He is Samuel Winchester."

"Yeah?" Dean challenged. "How can you be so sure? You couldn't tell the trickster was an archangel, for Christ's sake."

"Don't take the Lord's name in vain," Castiel said mildly. Dean let go of Sam's arm. He grabbed it, massaging it, and turned to his brother again. Dean's face had crumpled, showing age and sick even more clearly.

"Sammy?" He rasped. "Is that really you?"

Sam didn't answer this time. He just leaned over and grabbed his brother in a tight hug. "Yeah," he said, fighting through his own tears. "Yeah, Dean, it's me."

**AN: Yay! Our boys are back together!**


End file.
